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A banal noir. 

"And still the demons of our pity spoke: no lips would share the lipstick of her smoke; the telephone that rang before a ball every two minutes in Sorosa Hall for her would never ring; and, with a great screeching of tires on gravel, to the gate out of the lacquered night, a white-scarfed beau would never come for her; she’d never go, a dream of gauze and jasmine, to that dance."
- Vladimir Nabokov,
Pale Fire

HPB vs. The Hills

Sound by Brian Yazzie


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